Eltium or not—the box had no will of its own. Ivory lowered her eyes with a sad exhale; the box was not what enslaved her; it was her own inadequacy.
A moment of silent contemplation took hold in the room, but eventually, she reached once again for the box. The surface was cold, sending a mild shiver down her bones. Chilling.
Picking it up, Ivory drew it close to her face, letting the bluish light of her froststone illuminate what the lamps could not.
What was revealed by the wash of blue light was nothing. Just a black cube of no renown. No marking, no seal...Nothing. Of course, Ivory knew where it came from: The church.
The Church, the only means to procure Caster Emerlts, surely it came from them. However, the question of reason bothered her. Why had the church given it?
It was known only the sisters were allowed to carry it. Their right as ordained by the theocracy. So why? Did Mother pull some strings? Or could the depth of mother's secrecy go deeper, piercing the iron barricade of the church?
Ivory shivered at the foreboding thought. There was danger in these things—horrible danger. She felt the warmth of her head.
No point. That, she chose to do. Stopping her mother was out of the question, thus, she chose to believe in the naive reality that this was done from goodwill. The alternative was shuddering. What is was, was a truth that Mother had done ill to obtain it. Thinking such felt wrong to do.
The clan was already fighting the rumors of their inadequacy, mostly pertaining to her inability to cast. Any more additions to that would break them. War. Death. The clan would fall by the hands of themselves and the world's.
Realization from her mind stream dawned on her, and Ivory pressed her finger on the box, snapping it open. The half down revealed the contents within—a strange black glove rippling silently.
Dark, the glove ended on a silver rim, body inscribed with gray glyphs and strange symbols. None that she knew, but few she drew similarities. In them, she understood the vain purpose they served. There was no point to them—no practical use other than aesthetic.
She had expected something. Anything in link with the church, perhaps some tale of the almighty, his ten hands, aspects, or another in relation to the topic. Yet…there was not.
There's a chance, she thought, a chance this is a custom Emerlts. Meaning these ones are purely like that and not true for the rest.
Her thoughts calmed, and she looked at the glove. A sigh escaped—a tired one. Not now, she thought, placing it by the side. It was a futile action, she knew that; however, the desire to wait, to test reality for a bit, urged her. Who knew, perhaps a Miracle could happen?
If there was ever the possibility of that power becoming hers in all trueness, then she would wait. Being a liar by known accountants brought harm in the end. Yes, the glove, for a moment, would bring solace to the troubled mind of the clan, but, in the end—a certainty she knew deep within, the revelation would end them.
She, as next heir, could not allow for that.
So she was to wait. Maybe, sleep a little and hope for greater strength when awakened. That was all she could do. Pathetic in all perception. Yet, that was it. To either wear the glove or snap in her sleep.
She prayed to the crow. One of wealth and success. I will write it once I wake up.
Ivory returned her gaze to the ceiling, watching the spiraling gems bind to the center. Her mind briefed a thought.
Say I snapped, what order would I even end up in? She turned around, retrieving her stare from the roof. Perhaps the same as the Father? A Bladesworn. Strong, powerful, but…Not for me. The dreamShaper seems better.
A mere notion, she understood. How could she, a high heir of the valor clan, the home of the bladesworn, be anything but…That was wrong.
So wrong….
Her eyes grew heavy, thoughts reaching sluggish by the moment. She tried, naturally, to resist the pull of sweat darkness, but in the end, she succumbed to the calm shadow.
That Night, she dreamt.
Merrin retrieved his mind from the depths of the darkness. He saw, yes, but didn't. There was a strangeness to it. These people, brightCrown, they killed their own. What then about them? What hope did they have?
None.
This chilled him.
I guess there's no point asking one for help!
He turned and met the gaze of the bird. "Why exactly did the ardent show me that?"
The creature of smooth black flapped his wings and said, "The ardents often see the strings of fate. Symbols say these things. So a connection must exist between you and her."
Merrin grasped the meaning from the spoken words. He knew, true, symbols did reveal things, an onslaught of knowledge of both the needed and unneeded kind. It was mystifying to experience it. Yet,
Me and a brightCrown? It seemed a joke to consider that—a laughable one at best. Maybe the symbols are wrong. No one said what they said was always true.
Merrin agreed in mental certainty and heaved a calming breath. Suddenly, he felt the hard press of weakness within him. Not physically, but of the mind. The body remained strong, and the mind too, as clear as this strange world afforded him, still, he felt frailness.
Then, the awareness came. "When was the last time I danced?"
The bird flapped, "You asking me?" A tone of censure sounded from it.
I see. So that was it? The steam, the mist, the dance. Myself calls me. He dropped his gaze and saw the sea of beads: small, black, smooth like polished steel.
I am.
He expelled from the sky, the wind whistling past his ears as the ground rushed to him. He stopped, hovering inches away from the earth.
Making a person from them is complicated, but what if it's not a person? Just a simple thing, an occurrence that's common enough and is even physically creatable. Like steam? This world is already hot in some way, and the scent of ash is here, too.
All I need is the steam.
He reached for the stone, and the sureness of his actions came over him. The light flowed. From his fingers, the white light, like controlled flows of water, poured into a bead.
"What are you?" he asked.
"I am."
Merrin felt the invasive thought—the desire to shout and force his will upon it. But no. Not now, not here. Merrin reached further and said, "You are steam."
And the bead, broke into fumes of queer white, tendrils rising into the sky.
"You are Steam!"
Many numbers unknown broke, shattering into tails of fog. The gray world was suddenly filled with the scent of ash and the goodness of the whiteness rising to the sky.
Beautiful.
He heaved a breath, looked up, and smiled.
Merrin opened his arms, parted his legs, and danced. How calming it felt—freeing even. There was no wonder, no need, just him and the bending of his body. No, there was not even a him, just an awareness of existence.
What was to be oneself? To simply tackle at the wills and decisions in which one is to make? To simply live as a collection of repeated actions and one's imagined? No, that was not self.
There was more. Merrin bent and twirled, and his mind sank deeper into the darkness that was himself. He was sure of the danger of what he did. Many have done it and lost themselves in the expanse of their identity. Countless have turned rigid, alive but not just for venturing into the darkest parts of themselves.
So what was self? This was a question the shamans had asked him..
A human is born. First, they are caged in the belly of a mother, then trapped in the arms and love. They grow and are celled by the words of pattern, laws, and rules. In the end, they die the same way.
So what then was self?
It was a prison! This is my prison. And someone is here with me!
Merrin opened, a surge of oneness stitching softly into his mind. He knew; he felt it. Somewhere, in this gray world, something. Something he did not have any connection to had been admitted.
A woman dropped from the sky!
Ivory was in a grayness; a vast alien space of black sands— dark gray skies. Tall figures clad in oily black robes walked the land. They were headless; nothing but a dark orb spinning above the flat collars of their robes.
She felt their gaze!
"We are to preserve!" they said.
Fear gripped her, now she was on the ground. She felt the land. The dark sands were not sand at all, just beads of night, numbering in the unknown. The strange beings were gone, replaced by a far figure—steadily approaching. He looked a man, black hair, dry and long, with some ascent of ash gray on it. His eyes burned white, his worn, tattered cloak fluttering in the wind. Like a coming storm, his steps drew closer, his left hand burning as though set ablaze with white fire.